


If There's a Soul Mate for Everyone

by Consume Thy Heart (TearsofKings)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Because it gives me feels, F/F, F/M, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Just because I want to, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Soul Bond, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, There will be fluffy ones, and angsty ones, and stupid hopefully at least a tiny bit funny ones, sad ones, this first chapter is just a random opening I guess, this will have many random unrelated chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-01-25 18:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18579697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearsofKings/pseuds/Consume%20Thy%20Heart
Summary: Hello Y'all! So I've been wanting to do my own soul mate one-shots for a while. Not all of them are going to be good, they are just what I feel like writing and come up with at the time, but I'm sharing them with others and hopefully, they will be fun for others like they are for me. I'm not sure how long this collection of one-shots will be, but I'm going to just keep adding them as I finish them for different pairings I like. There will be modern AU's as well. I have three other one-shots I am working on so this will be updated faster than some of my longterm projects in the future I'm plotting out. Anyway, I'm starting with these three cause I love them.





	1. MadaraMitoHashirama.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Y'all! So I've been wanting to do my own soul mate one-shots for a while. Not all of them are going to be good, they are just what I feel like writing and come up with at the time, but I'm sharing them with others and hopefully, they will be fun for others like they are for me. I'm not sure how long this collection of one-shots will be, but I'm going to just keep adding them as I finish them for different pairings I like. There will be modern AU's as well. I have three other one-shots I am working on so this will be updated faster than some of my longterm projects in the future I'm plotting out. Anyway, I'm starting with these three cause I love them.

 

**In which a soul mark only glows once you physically touch your soul mates.**

* * *

 

With one crisply sharp corner clamped between his calloused index and middle fingers, the creamy rectangular unsealed envelope hovers lopsidedly, dangling steadily and dangerously above the burning fire pit in his backyard.  
  
The spitting sparks of the hungry flames flicker an ethereal-like glow in his darker than coal irises, as he silently peers, stricken and grotesquely tempted, down at the sweet grey wood smoke licking tantalizingly up each side of the carefully folded white paper, begging to devour it. All he has to do is simply let the object drop, and his unwanted problem will be neatly solved.  
  
— Feed this offensively expensive piece of hideous stationary to his helpful little accomplice of a mini inferno that will conveniently incinerate the evidence in his stead, and he can aptly claim he ‘misplaced’ the invitation during a momentary distraction before he was able to read its contents. No one will suspect a thing or question his excuse, _AS IF._  
  
He knows he is cowardly lying to himself with falsehoods and empty comforts and half-baked reassurances, because the news of what this abomination, this nuisance in his hand, contains has already traveled throughout the entire settlement and village by word of mouth like a plague, and no one will buy what he’s selling if he insists the gossip never once reached his ears.  
  
Hashirama that unintentionally manipulative sapling, will be miserable and rooted firmly on his doorstep with his doe eyes dejected and swimming with hurt demanding to know why Madara failed to appear at his wedding, and Madara will swallow down his guilt, and the truth. Until the idiot pries the real reason out of him — he can’t allow that outcome — as their long-time friendship will melt as surely as this paper and flow down the drain.  
  
Madara exhales through his nose, and he forces himself to retract his hand away from the bright beckoning fire —turn his tensed broad back to the pit, and storm into the empty halls of his estate. His thunderous footsteps echo off the rafters as the Uchiha throws the envelope against a wall with a slap and lets it slide to the floor somewhere behind him.  
  
He thought that immature disrespectful action would relieve some of his turmoil, but it just sickens his stomach further. There is only one option for the status quo to remain the same — go to the motherfucking wedding and support his friend as good friends do. And pretend looking at Hashirama and his wife together does not make his fists clench, his teeth grit, his heart palpitate ugly with jealousy, and extend his blessing no matter how insincere he feels.  
  
Indeed, he is happy for Hashirama to have found his soul mate, with a woman who also happens to be of high status to match his — _a princess_ — and secure a political alliance from the arrangement to strengthen the engagees positions and power. His friend is beyond fortunate, and his over the moon goofy smile never leaves his lips these days. If anyone deserves such happiness, is it not the man who has desired peace for a lifetime and achieved it?  
  
Then why...why does thinking about it leave a taste so very sad and bitter on his tongue?  
  
Because he’s never told, Hashirama, that is why. Because from all the times they’ve touched one another casually or in battle from the time they met as children to this day, Madara’s soul marks have yet to glow. He’s always known they aren’t meant to be, not like he’s always wished, but still his feelings rage and burn and pine after an oblivious idiot. It doesn’t help that Hashirama’s soon-to-be wife is more infuriatingly perfect than he can ever hope to be.  


* * *

The first time Madara saw her, Princess Uzumaki Mito, a woman with severe, yet soft features, he was struck by her hair color — The macabre pigment of tresses as red as freshly drawn blood pulled into two tight buns without a strand out of place — and the two mysterious tags with unintelligible lettering on them. He'd heard of Uzumaki's affinity for fuinjutsu and found it to be an impressive skill. Perhaps she could seal this pain in his heart.  
  
She wore pins that could puncture a throat and what they were actually for, he hadn’t a clue, but his eyes lingered on the splendor of her hair, so different from his charcoal unmanageable mane, so much more like Hashirama’s silky waves. The children those two would have would be a sight, unlike him who can't ever give Hashirama children.  
  
And despite her short stature, he noted she walked tall. Her chin was raised confidently above her elegant neck like the world was her garden and she knew it. Her hands were hidden and folded in her kimono sleeves, and her back was a strict ramrod posture. As the two approached him, each step she took was as graceful as if she was strolling on water, and he wouldn't be surprised if, in reality, her feet didn’t even make a ripple when the Uzushio Kunoichi traveled by sea.

  
Observing her, standing beside Hashirama, Mito patiently listening to that grinning moron enthusiastically and too-loudly ramble on about a subject he couldn’t hear from his distance, and the ghost of a fond, indulgent smile playing on her painted lips, Madara had the uncontrollable gut-wrenching thought,

 _‘they look good together.’_  
  
His stomach quivered when she glanced away from Hashirama and Madara met her steely tranquil gaze. And wondered why his instincts rankled at him. He sensed her power, she was someone with power that surpassed the liberties of being royalty, but what it really was...she held a too-knowing sharpness in her intense mercurial eyes that put him on edge and raised the hairs at the nape of his neck. He found himself unable to look away as her eyes slowly flickered between whatever was plastered on Madara’s face in that moment and Hashirama.  
  
And in one of the most embarrassing moments of his life that the Uchiha would forever feel ashamed of, he’d retreated from the bonded couple, ignoring Hashirama’s calls that rung in his ears all the way home, and missed the peculiar thoughtfulness written on Mito’s features.

* * *

The day of the wedding finally came after three months since he received the invitation, three months of avoiding his problem. Madara sits in the audience, way in the back, watching the procession with glazed over eyes, with a wrapped gift box clutched in his arms, like he is hugging it for support. As the couple of the hour, Mito, a vision of dreams, in her Shinto wedding attire and Hashirama ridiculously handsome in his formal Hakama, he wishes deep in his heart, to find the one bonded to be with him.  
  
He wishes to have what the man he loves and the woman Hashirama loves, have. He observes it all, his heart in shattered remains, but he keeps up his brave front, clapping at all the right appropriate places, and stands when it is time to give gifts, before them, forcing a smile, and holds it out to Mito’s hands.

And their fingers brush.  
  
A blinding light startles every soul at the wedding and Madara’s heart stops and his eyes expand three sizes. Their matching soul marks are shining together as the same light. And his lips part when Hashirama’s mark also begins to glow. All along, he'd been drawn to Hashirama, and it occurrs to him now that one with two marks must touch both soul mates, and there was more than one reason Mito had him on edge just from looking at her.  
  
And flustered and rambling like a lunatic, Madara says hello to Mito for the first time, apologizes for avoiding her, and in the same breath demands a redo wedding and full veto power over choosing the new invitation stationary — because Hashirama can't be trusted with budgets and his style is lame — and lets the gift fall as he’s pulled into two pairs of warm arms.  
  
And he ignores the joyful dampness his eyes leave on Hashirama’s shoulder and how firmly his fingers curl around Mito’s hand and lets them hold him and hopes they never let go.  
  
Thank _god_ he didn’t burn that invitation.  



	2. Izuna and Madara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what this is as I wrote it half asleep, but I sure cried a lot. And this is a platonic soulmate story just so you know. Thinking about Izuna always destroys me. That line, Madara said in canon about the only thing Izuna passed down to him being Izuna's eyes, makes me tear up every time like these bros make me so sad so I tried to translate that into this one-shot but tbh I'm just screwing around with writing and giving myself feels on the way. Someone save me.

**In which a soulmate gradually dies of heartbreak after their soulmate passes**

* * *

 

Madara remembers when Izuna was small.  
  
Just this tiny pink-faced martian thing swaddled up in a sterile towel held safely in their proud mother’s sweaty arms that shouldn’t have possessed lungs strong enough to cry loud enough to be heard all the way to Nakano Shrine. To the ears of God and everybody, but that healthy baby wanted his first greeting to the world to be heard.  
  
"Do you want to hold him, Madara-kun?"  
  
Madara remembers the midwife passing Izuna to him with his mother's insistence, and the expectant expressions on his parent’s faces, how even Tajima’s lips were curved upward and the hard lines of his eyes were soft with joy when their father’s eyes fell on his second newborn son. How astonishingly fragile and too-lightweight his baby brother felt in his hands, and how he couldn’t believe he used to be that little too.  
  
Most of all, he remembers when Madara tentatively introduced himself as Izuna’s older brother, with utmost politeness and too much formality for a five-year-old, and how there was no way the new life understood him verbally, yet Izuna stopped crying. Stopped, just like that, and Madara had feared something was wrong with him like he broke him somehow.  
  
“Oh,” His mother chuckled breathlessly, and he remembers her tender smile and the fond affection in her gaze to this day when she cooed, “He likes the sound of your voice.”  
  
 Madara remembers gazing down at his small tear-streaked face with wide eyes and the rush of innocent warmth that overtook his chest, and when the smallest hand he’d ever seen wrapped around his thumb, how he’d completely melted.  
  
Right then, a sense of responsibility for this precious creature struck him, and that pure fraternal protectiveness never released Madara. The devastating strength of his love and devotion only grew with him as he aged. He also remembers the gasps of the adults in the room when two matching marks appeared on their connected hands, but at the time he hadn’t known what that meant. He just knew Izuna was a gift, a light in this dark war he grew up in.  
  
"It's nice to meet you, Izuna."  
  
Now he knows, he knows so well, because he’s sick and dying and he’s standing over Izuna’s grave, moments after his little brother’s casket was lowered into the ground, as Uchiha clansmen toss dirt over him with shovels in respectful silence. Staring down with Izuna’s eyes in his sockets, listening to the crows cawing nearby drawn by the scent of death, he muses that its fitting, he supposes, to think of the beginning at the very end.  
  
The funeral is a short affair. There are prayers, a vigil, condolences Madara numbly acknowledges, the pat of hands lingering on his shoulders, family attempting to connect with him one last time, but he’s not there. He’s everywhere and nowhere, remembering when Izuna was small.  
  
 Remembering how they grew up, child soldiers raised by war, sparring together like it is a competition, the closest thing to a game they ever played, standing back to back in battle, snoring softly beside each other, being teased mercilessly by Izuna’s stupid jokes.  
  
Wondering how they got here, how they arrived at Madara’s ultimate failure, lost on this path lined with broken promises and unfulfilled convictions, everything stabbed through by Senju Tobirama’s blade in a single flash of deadly movement. And soon it is only he and Hikaku still lingering, the latter in support Madara would appreciate if he could dredge up the strength.  
  
Eventually, Madara senses more than hears Hikaku leave and feels his feet gradually carry him away with heavy footsteps and a buzzing in his ears like static, his body floating like his head is underwater, and the Earth around him, feels slower, shallower, empty. His body takes him through the compound.  
  
To his and Izuna’s home, and he slips off his shoes on autopilot, and pads down the empty halls. Halls with rooms that used to be filled with the laughter of his four siblings, the soothing voice of his mother, and his father discussing warfare strategy in low tones in his meeting room. Now it is just him, just him and the servants, and the Clan he is about to involuntarily leave behind.  
  
He doesn’t realize he has traveled to Izuna’s room until he is standing in the doorway, and for the first time since Izuna died, a non-numb emotion bubbles up in his gut, and it is rage, it is liquid fury, it is ice in his veins. Because there is an intruder in Izuna’s room, standing with a crate to the left of their ankles. In this crate are objects, like the object in the man’s hands, a man whose back is turned to him, holding what he has up in front of his face.  
  
And he’s bellowing so fiercely the shogi doorframes are shaking, and his voice is cracking because he’s hardly spoken in days, and he sees red. “What do you think you are doing in here? Who gave you permission to come into this room? Get out! GET OUT!”

He thinks he might kill the servant when he passes him, his fingers itch with the boiling desire to curl his hand around his neck, lift the servant from his feet, and gouge his throat out.  
  
He has committed a crime. He has touched Izuna’s things, tainted precious mementos of his little brother’s. But he’s gone fast, and Madara lets him go, and he steps into the room, exhausted from that brief confrontation, more than a healthy person would be. He’s leaning down and picking up the thing the man dropped, one of Izuna’s shirts and his anger fades as he runs his fingers over the ridge of the high collar, thumbing down the sleeves and he gazes at the red of the fan, vacant-eyed, and slowly closes his eyes and lifts the fabric to his nose.  
  
But the shirt doesn’t smell like Izuna at all anymore. The scent of his sibling has faded, gone. Someone has cleaned Izuna’s wardrobe without his permission. There is no evidence of his little brother’s presence on something he’s worn several dozens of times, no proof that Izuna was ever alive. This shirt is just a carbon copy of what all Uchiha wear now. It might as well belong to a stranger.  
  
And a great tremor overtakes his frame and his chin trembles, and he’s sucking in a short intake of breath, and another, and another.  
  
He covers his mouth with one shaking hand, gasping between the gaps of his fingers as he backs up against the wall behind him and his feet sway, and legs collapse to the hard floor as one sharp gut-wrenching sob tears through his chest. He hugs his baby brother’s shirt close and buries his face and wet eyes into the fabric, wheezing uncontrollably because he can’t see, smell, hear, or sense his brother anymore.  
  
Izuna is so far away.  
  
When Hikaku finds his Clan Head later in the evening, Madara appears deep asleep, curled up on the floor with his head lying half on top of Izuna’s shirt and the bottom half of the garment is caught in a death grip in his fist. Hikaku backs up on his toes without making a single noise, closes the shogi doors softly in front of him, turns on his heel, and never speaks of what he saw to anyone. Madara pretends he never knew he was there.  
  
He attacks Hashirama, he seeks revenge, and he fails, and his Clan is dragged into an alliance. He is dying and can’t stop them, but his best friend whom Izuna distrusted is the only hope for his clan once he is gone as well. It is a year later, in a time of peace, that Madara is bedridden, and he knows that he’s lasted far longer than he should have, and there is only one thing left to do.  
  
Perched on a carefully chosen secluded corner of a mile-long beach overlooking a newly built port, Madara sits cross-legged with the sharp joint of his elbow propped on his knee and cheek held up sideways by the gloved knuckles of his right fist.  
  
The cooling wind blows and kicks golden sand around his lone immobile figure, flapping his untameable blue-black mane in all different directions, some individual strands of his fringe sticking ticklishly to his feverish sweaty sea-humid face. Softly, savoring it, he inhales the authentic salty brine of the ocean lapping gently against a nearby shore, in and out, long and shuddering, drawn deep in through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth.  
  
He only vaguely pays mind to the cooperative calls of sailors, the dull thumps and squeaks of boots on wet wood, the rolling of wine barrels over decks, sails pulled up by ropes on their masts, the metal anchors dropping below sight ricochet through the area.  
  
He listens to the soothing shrieks of gulls flying overhead and the joyous laughter of delighted Uchiha children loaded on decorative oxen carts and wagons being pulled around on a tour of the port and fish market. And he thinks of the beginning again of when he and Izuna were small, how if he could just turn back time...and Madara wonders if his brother can see what he can through the eyes Izuna gifted him, but those thoughts no longer serve and it’s time...it’s time.  
  
“Izuna, when you died, my world ended.”  
  
 Madara’s eyes lift to the sky, the clouds that still move, the birds that still sing, the sun that still glares, the wind that still howls, without Izuna.  
  
“You’ve gone so far away and all I want to do, little brother, is to hold you and feel your warmth, hear your beautiful voice and promise you I will listen this time, to anything you have to say.”  
  
“I miss you, I miss you so much.” Madara sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his fist and intakes a shuddering breath, holding back the hacking cough that wishes to scrape up from his lungs.  
  
“If you’re watching, I’m sure you’re ashamed of the mess I’ve become. So Izuna,” He grits his teeth, “I am choosing to do what you would wish for me to do now. I am no longer going to look behind me, back at what was and what could have been. Even though I am still, life around me goes on. So little brother, I know you wouldn’t have wanted me to live like this, so I’m going to....” He takes a deep breath, “Let you go. Because your memory is what keeps me here.”  
  
Madara weakly positions himself to one knee, takes a fistful of soft sand, and stands, gazing down at the ashen pile unblinkingly. Then his eyelids flutter closed, and with all the strength he has left, his fingers uncurl one by one, he slowly opens his palm and releases it. With a whisper, he watches the wind carry the glittering grains over the welcoming open sea towards the warm rising sun where the sky and sea meet.  
  
“You were the light of my life,” he chokes, “Goodbye Izuna.”  
  
And when Madara, at last, silently falls on his face and the life leaves his eyes, and his heart gives out, and the mark on his hand is the last thing he sees, his goodbye is never returned, because Izuna is waiting for him on the other side and Izuna has got his hand wrapped around Madara's again and he's smiling just as Madara remembers him and pulling him into the light.


	3. HashiMada

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble of indulgent lovey-dovey symbolic porn because I'm a sucker for that shit and the inspiration refused to die.

**In which soulmates meet in their dreams**

 

* * *

 

_Madara and Hashirama share a secret._

In the day, they meet as conflicting adversaries on opposing sides of a bloody senseless war under the oppressive watchful gazes of their bitter fathers. They battle like two titans, two demigods, spill each other’s blood, and paint the Earth they destroy with vicious crimson.

They leave scars, they hurt one another in the name of their clans and fallen brothers, and they don’t stop until a strategic retreat back to their encampments is ordered.

But at night, in the privacy of their minds, they meet in their dreams as just men. As two old familiar friends who are forbidden to be as they are. Like how they sometimes simply sit and indulge in conversations about nothing and everything like they used to.

Sometimes they have brutal arguments that rage on until they are roaring awake. Sometimes they sit in silence wordlessly side by side in the unconscious world they create in their imaginations, thinking of reality.

Other times, one of them will tentatively reach out to lace their fingers. Other times, their foreheads press together, and they grip each other’s shoulders and cup each other’s faces with their eyes closed.

Other times they kiss and don’t stop because their dream selves don’t require oxygen. Other times, they are both naked, and they touch each other, it escalates faster than either of them know how it started, and they burn.

Most of the time, they burn.

Madara’s neck and stomach burns under Hashirama’s savoring moist open-mouthed kisses lingering against the vulnerable hollow of his throat. His racing pulse, and the tip of a tongue, hot and wet, taste him inch by inch down his muscular torso until the wet muscle is past his belly button, and he’s arching, and soft tresses of sleek brown hair caress his overheated skin.

Madara’s flesh burns underneath Hashirama’s tan sweat-slippery palms gliding worshipfully over his broad thundering chest. His bare back burns underneath ten blunt fingernails raking between his shoulder blades and over the bumpy vertebrae of his spine and the slow, soft lips that travel down its curve like a familiar road.

Madara’s nape burns beneath Hashirama’s lascivious praises erratically breathed, lewd and ardent, against the sensitive shell of his inflamed ear. His narrow hips burn in a frantic one-handed grip tugging his body back and forth against a muscular abdomen that is flexing as they collide like tides crashing against a shore.

Madara’s knees and elbows burn from struggling to hold himself up as the pleasure gradually intensifies into something overwhelming. His lungs burn with every breath, and quiet noise thrashed out of him and with every moan of his name spilling from Hashirama’s filthy mouth, and he burns with pride, the shame long since reduced to ashes.

Madara’s lips burn as he gasps death threats to Hashirama, to keep going, that the Senju better not stop because Madara refuses to burn alone. His insides burn, penetrated and stretched too full, too hard, too fast, just the way he wants it, needs it, just as he demands until his voice is cracking and hoarse.

There is a place inside him that burns with each movement, each brush of Hashirama’s rigid member rubbing its thick head against his prostate. And the pleasure burns and builds until his orgasm is crashing into him as he ejaculates into his lover’s hand and his eyes burn as he shakes, his Sharingan burns, moist from his intense release as Hashirama's climax follows and the Senju fills him.

And the Uchiha burns with of a thousand confusing emotions for Hashirama, his enemy, and his soulmate, who is saying such pretty things, such sweet _disgusting_ things — fierce declarations that sear through his soul and leave his heart soft and furious and joyful all at once.

Hashirama burns because he loves Madara more than he can take, he burns with sadness because the Senju can only have him in the darkness, and can only be Madara’s lover in their dreams because he wants more for them and more for the world.

Never once has Hashirama touched him like this when the sun is burning in the sky. Until both their fathers are buried in the ground, and Uchiha has defected one by one until the Uchiha Clan has dwindled to numbers too few to stand a chance against the Senju.

Until even Izuna admits, the war can’t go on. Until Hashirama and Madara are physically sitting across from each other in a house, Hashirama built with a table between them and two glistening sake cups, with a scroll laid out detailing their alliance, and they sign both their signatures.

Until Hashirama’s palm lays flat on the table, and as the Senju is pouring them more sake, Madara grips Hashirama’s wrist, and they lock eyes. Until the table is knocked onto its side and sake drips in a clear puddle on the tatami mat.

Fabric rips and tears and is thrown away. Lips clash, and Madara is on his back, and his legs are hiked up over Hashirama’s shoulders. There is pain, there is pleasure, and there is peace. The secret is out, and their dream comes true.

_And they burn._


End file.
